


Ein Lied

by hiddeninthecellar



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Aurora Borealis, Cold, Fluff, Inspiration, M/M, POV First Person, Smut, Song writing, complicated relationship, contradictory feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29613453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddeninthecellar/pseuds/hiddeninthecellar
Summary: To create a song, both music and lyrics are needed. Collaboration is necessary.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Comments: 20
Kudos: 32





	1. From the sound of the Aurora Borealis

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to Nikki for supporting this weird, self-indulgent project of mine.

Wenn ihr nicht schlafen könnt

sei euch ein Lied vergönnt

Und der Himmel bricht

Ein Lied fällt weich vom Himmelslicht

Whenever you can't sleep

May you be treated to a song

And heaven cracks

A song falls softly from the light of heaven

  
  


**PRELUDE**

(Richard)

"Damn."

I fight with my cigarette and lighter. They both slip through my fingers, which quickly grow numb despite the expensive, black leather gloves I'm wearing. I know I should remove them in order to make the task easier. The frosty air feels like it has developed fangs that bite at my cheeks, which makes that choice unrealistic. For the ten-thousandth time, I curse myself for being too stubborn to bring warm enough clothing, but I didn't imagine that I would be outside more than for a few minutes at a time.

Going back inside without first smoking a cigarette isn't an option. Currently, I have no distraction effective enough nearby to prevent me from giving in to my addiction. He who could be that distraction claimed he was tired, left us at the table, and went to sleep half an hour ago.

So here I am, torturing myself in this freezing place where the cold must be similar to the one pictured by Dante in the Ninth Circle of Hell. The sign on the hotel shows the charming temperature of -28 C (-18.4 F). I can't help to think it's funny, that at these latitudes, the cold can dip much lower.

Finally, when my trembling hands have managed to light the cigarette, I take a deep, long drag before I blow out the smoke. Not only for the nicotine rush -I welcome the warmth that widens my lungs that almost feel suffocated by the chill.

My gaze is irresistibly drawn up into the sky. With surprising clarity, I remember the details from a science show I watched with Till some time ago about different phenomenons of nature, the Aurora Borealis among others. When there are storms on the sun, charged protons and electrons are thrown out in space with gigantic force. Once they reach Earth they collide with the atoms and molecules in the magnetosphere. The intensity of the clash causes them to glow as the magnetosphere sends the particles to the magnetic poles. 

Therefore, above the polar circles on the northern and southern hemispheres, you can see the result on clear nights if you're lucky: all these basking colors painted across the sky. With the condition, you can stand the arctic chill eating your bones.

I admire the wide streams of yellow-green sparkling up there, and contemplate how the result of some collisions brings miracles, not disasters. Some believe life is sprung from comets colliding with Earth. Whether life on Earth should be considered a miracle or a disaster, I'm not sure.

A trick of the light makes it look like the stream of the lights are moving and tumbling down. The same science show told that the Samis, the indigenous people of Northern North, spoke about a rhythmic, crackling sound when the streams hit the ground. The sound of the Aurora Borealis is considered a myth, but if I am correct, someone has recently managed to record what maybe was the sound.

I blow smoke out in the frosty air and expect nothing but the silence of a still winter night. Instead, I hear a hissing, crackling sound, resembling the staticky noise between stations when you tune on an old radio. It quickly disappears but I hear it again with the fall of the next ray. The sound varies between popping, sparking, and sometimes a humming that ends with a frail whining, resembling a sob.

My mind reels. Whatever it is that I hear, it's so captivating that it’s bordering on agonizing. A chord is struck deep inside me, making the muscles in my chest tighten. I tilt my head towards where the sound appears to be coming from, attempting to hear better.

I lower my cigarette, and like being drawn by a magnetic pole myself, I step away from the trampled path and out into the deeper pile of snow on the side, as if I'll have a better chance of catching the haunting sound if I get closer to the source. The snow that pours in over the shaft of my low boots dampens my thin socks and my skin. The unpleasant sensation makes me hiss and I drop the half-smoked cigarette. I swear; my nicotine craving  hasn’t been sated , but I don't bother lighting a new one. I know I'll drop that one, too. 

The chilling sensation of melting snow against my skin sharpens my hearing and makes the tones increase in volume, which makes the need for nicotine easier to ignore. I take another few steps away from the road, into the even deeper snow, with less reluctance this time.

That sparking sound… Off the road I can clearly distinguish a beat that combined with the recurrent short pauses creates the pulsating rhythm some old Sami folklore tells about. The rhythm rushes through my body like an injection of a strange but powerful stimulant, albeit very different from the ones I've taken way too many times. 

Maybe both my brain and body are so unused to this extreme temperature that I've become psychotic, but I'm convinced I can discern a melody-- a fleeting, subtle, but alluring melody. I hold my breath as I listen closely. I nod as if to an unseen observer. A melody indeed, following the yellow and green dance of the light show.

I don't know how long I've been standing here, listening. My boots and the lower part of my trousers are buried in the snow, and when the sound releases me from its trance, I almost can't move my feet. In this extreme cold, they have already frozen to the ground. I have to use so much force to tear them loose, that I stumble and nearly trip over when I try to use the ice blocks my feet have turned into. Unable to walk properly, I stagger inside the hotel lobby and slump down in an armchair, strategically placed right beside the entrance. Once seated, I remove my beanie and then my gloves with much effort. My fingers are so numb and blue, I might as well have been outside bare-handed. I open and close them in an attempt to make my blood circulate again.

My body Is wracked with shivers to warm itself up, but I don't care. My brain is probably as frostbitten as my feet, but I still feel the thrumming in the back of my head. It’s even louder than before. I'm relieved; I want it to linger, to increase my inspiration.

Convinced that my feet are swimming in water from the melted snow, I remove my boots, but to my surprise, all of the liquid has been soaked up by the waterproof material on the inside. The boots are thin but of decent quality. A brief thought to go up to my room to change shoes crosses my mind, but I decide against it. Shuddering, I put my wet socks and remarkably dry boots back on. 

Before I head back to the bar, I cast a glance outside again. The earlier ghostly yellow and green lights have partly been replaced with rays of pink. The rainbow-like effect cutting right through the streams of light is even more striking. If I remember correctly, the pink color is a result of stronger collisions higher up in the sky. I fight to catch my breath. Some collisions can't- should not- be avoided, even if they hurt.

Of the melody in my head a powerful song can be created, but, realization strikes me at that moment that such a -painful-collision is necessary. I don't know if I have enough strength left. Then again, I know I can't escape. This is something I have to do.

"Did you have a couple of drinks before you stepped out?" Flake asks, much to the amusement of the others as I stumble into the bar on feet that are still stiff from the cold outside. I collapse into a chair around the table where everybody aside from Till is seated.

"No, my feet froze," I answer while I try to adjust my hair with my fingers. It's hard without a mirror.

"Small wonder, considering your choice of boots. I'm amazed that you can walk at all," he continues, looking closer at me. I meet his gaze behind his glasses for a short second before I look down again and try to focus on trying to move my stiff toes.

"They're not that bad, my feet are almost dry." I know I sound grouchy, but my mind is too distracted for me to care.

"Of course not, as long as your shoes serve your pretty image, you don't care about gangrene."

Even if Flake is teasing me, there's something resembling concern in his voice that softens the bite from his words. I'm sure he's not only worried about my feet, so I wonder if Till has spoken to him.

I command myself to not care . The melody in my head overwhelms all the surrounding sounds, even the old country hit that is blaring from the jukebox in front of the bar. I concentrate and try to listen inside instead. I hear a variation in the theme. Without much effort, I can discern the beginnings of verses, a bridge, maybe a pre-chorus and chorus.

I shake my head in an attempt to suppress the melody. Right now I need some company.

A chuckle and a nudge to my side help me return to the present.

"Only your physical body is here. Are you composing something? Is that why you're tapping your fingers on the table instead of talking to us?"

Paul. Despite his words, his smile is kind and warm.

"The Aurora Borealis was that inspiring? Is that why you stayed out for so damn long without warm clothing?"

If he sees that, I wonder what else he sees.

____________________________________________________________________

(Till)

The Aurora Borealis is mesmerizing. My gaze is glued to the show. The lights are dazzling, but not blinding like sunlight. It's a real shame to close the curtain, but with the wild display of colors in the sky spreading all over the room, I have no choice if I want even the slightest chance to get some sleep. And sleep was what I intended to get when I left the others half an hour ago. I sigh. The exhaustion I feel isn't from sleepiness, but I must try anyway. I need a few hours of oblivion.

I have seen the Aurora Borealis before, but never this far North, and the phenomenon is nothing but striking in its beauty. Beauty has a tendency to capture me, whenever it appears, in whatever shape it comes, and no matter what the circumstances are. Above all, it captures me no matter how inconvenient the occasion is, like now when I'm supposed to be sleeping. It leaves me sleep-deprived and exhausted.

I tense when I see an all too familiar figure walking right outside the main building, struggling to light a cigarette. I watch Richard, enthralled once again by a wonder of nature, as he lifts his head to gaze up at the scenery. Where the positive and negative collide with such power, everyone can stand and stare in awe at the miracle. When I think about it, I can't help but see the parallels: Richard as the positive and I as the negative.

I continue to watch despite myself. Before Richard's finished smoking, he tilts his head in his characteristic way. As I am familiar with his movements, I'm sure he's listening. But to what?

I remember that I'd heard someone speaking about the sound of the Aurora Borealis. I think it was our local guide. I dismissed it as myths and fairy tales, but I wonder if that's what Richard hears now, as he steps away from the path right into the deep snow? The corners of my mouth turn upwards when I think about his low, thin boots. Because of his vanity, when Richard is inspired, he forgets-- ignores is more accurate-- petty little things like getting wet and cold. 

As I watch him, I grow more and more curious. I'm tempted to go out and listen to share his inspiration.

I snap the curtains shut with a determined jerk. The creak of the rod is proof that I used too much force, so I'm lucky it doesn't break. I'm relieved that I don't have to explain to the hotel management why I've ruined their, judging by the luster of the black fabric, new curtains.

I'm not sure if succeeding in shutting out the Aurora Borealis can be considered as "lucky." I remember a science show I watched with Richard months ago, where they told us that in folklore, it was believed to be a bringer of bad times. For example, it prophecies an outbreak of forest fires or plagues. Our local guide though, told us yesterday that here in Scandinavia, people believed that the Aurora Borealis was sprung from a fire-spitting mountain, made by the Creator with the purpose to spread warmth and light over the cold landscapes.

I see another parallel here: the contradictory views on the Northern Lights and my feelings for the reason shut out the play of dancing lights. Contradictory, exactly as my feelings for the reason that just made me shut out the play of dancing lights. Or, at least, I like to think they are. I fail. The naked truth is my  _ feelings _ have never been contradictory.

I sigh as I turn my back to the window. Overwhelmed, I blink to try to make my eyes adjust to what at first appears to be complete darkness in the room. After a short time, I can discern the contours of my bed and the small side table, but the black curtain makes sure that the earlier caleidoscope of dancing colors on the wall are kept on the outside… as well as beauty.

My old habit. I shut out both light and beauty to seek shelter in a darkness that can be comfortable, but often is not. Light and beauty have their own agenda. They won't let themselves be refused against their wish, not by a curtain nor anything else. No matter how whole or half-heartedly I try, fighting light and beauty is meaningless. I'm doomed to fail, if failing is the right word to use when you don't want to win.

My sigh is deeper this time. I lie down on the rather stiff mattress and pull the blankets up over my head.

If I set my mind to it, I might get some rest. I feel like I haven't slept for days. Light and beauty can have that effect on me, like sleep would be a waste of time.

___________________________________________________________________

(Richard)

Paul is so good at bringing me back when my overactive, jittery brain gets lost in daydreaming, musings, or like now, in search of the parts of a melody. Still, the chorus I feel is there… I must catch it before it disappears in the cacophony of the bar. 

I inhale deeply to clear my thoughts, and then I put my hands on my knees. I don't think I will lose the tune. If that happens against all odds, I can go out and listen under the sky again. The thought calms me.

"I'll save that for later."

I'm surprised at the steadiness and clarity of my voice. I don't feel that confident.

To my surprise, I end up having a good time. Just as I suspected, once I relax, the thrumming in my head lingers, but only as a soft background tune instead of present, but not overwhelming. Till's absence makes conversation run smoother for me, but at the same time, the empty chair might as well be screaming obscenities right into my face.

As the hours pass and it gets late, the others leave, first Oli. Ten minutes later Schneider shakes Flake awake. Flake has started snoring after falling asleep with his head on the table. Schneider practically carries him away, accompanied by our unrestricted laughter and Flake's drunken half-hearted protests.

As he watches their interaction, I see a flicker in Paul's eyes. He shifts slightly in the chair and there's a faint blush on his cheeks. It is almost gone before it's there. I have seen it before, but never so clearly. The lingering effect of the Aurora Borealis in my head, although distracting, is still sharpening my senses. Still, part of me noticing might also be because Paul has let his guard down a bit, now that we're alone. He tightens his grip on his glass to the point his knuckles whiten. For a second I worry it might break from the sheer force of his grip.

I hesitate, but then I ask because the question has been burning inside for so long: "Does Schneider know?"

Paul gulps down the rest of his drink before putting down his glass on the table again as he shakes his head. He doesn't look me in the eyes, which is very unusual. His reaction makes me want to ask him a thousand and one questions, but I don't. There are moments when Paul can appear to be very open, but this is not one of those occasions. His shield has been raised too high. He doesn't even bother to hide it with his usual straightforwardness.

"I think you should tell him. He would want to know. He doesn't know how much you care," I say softly instead, as I fight the sudden urge to tap with my fingers on the table again to accompany the rhythm in my head.

I thought Paul would ask me how I can be so sure, how I could know what Schneider does and doesn't know about that subject, but he doesn't comment on the unintentional slip of my tongue. His gaze is guarded, so I suspect he has noticed.

Then, the moment is gone. Paul is once again his usual self. Words pour out of him about just everything and nothing. It is so liberating, I revel in it. Then, once again, all of a sudden he grows serious, his gaze piercing. It's almost unsettling, I get the impression that he sees right through me as he pinpoints exactly what has bothered me the whole evening.

"Till said he was tired."

His comment could have been random. It isn't. I perfectly understand what he's aiming at.

"I know." A phrase I seem to be using a lot tonight. This time I can't keep the slight bitterness out of my voice.

"You didn't believe him," Paul states, both to me and to himself.

"Neither did you."

"Not entirely," Paul admits, a crease forming between his brows. "He looked tired, though."

My only answer is a sigh, far deeper than I intended.

"Richard, he didn't leave because he couldn't stand your company or look at you. As you very well know, he left because Till is a man that doesn't want to show his feelings openly. For some reason, it was harder for him tonight than usual to maintain his facade."

Paul knows Till, too.

Till puts so much effort into concealing or suppressing certain types of emotions, he can even appear detached sometimes, which frustrates me endlessly. You have to interpret his feelings, in what he hides. His struggles leave him drained.

"Did something happen between the two of you earlier today?"

I shake my head and shift. The chair feels numb under me.

“No. Not today.” I can't speak about it without sounding sour. "I try not to think about it. Talking won't help." I'm wrong, I know. Talking would help, but doing so now, when I don't have the right energy, will end up smashing my inspiration to dust. 

Paul looks below the sleeves on my shirt and his frown deepens. His gaze drifts to the marks on my wrists from the handcuffs. They have faded to a slight red line. You would have to look close to notice them.

"The two of you make a sport of making something easy, complicated…" he begins but stops before I have the chance to interrupt. 

I brace myself, but much to my surprise, Paul drops the subject and when he does, I become aware of the melody once again. I close my eyes for a second to be able to hear a variation in the theme. 

"Now you're absent-minded again," Paul interrupts my train of thoughts. "Did you get lost in the music again?"

I tell him about the sound of the Aurora Borealis and the patterns of rhythm I found in it, how it has captivated me and enchanted me, and the craving I have to catch and keep it, how powerful a song it has the potential to be, if I with help can put all the pieces together.

When I stop talking, Paul turns silent again. He looks thoughtful. I wonder if he for once weighs every word on a golden scale. When he finally speaks, his voice is cautious, nearly hesitant.

"Richard, you can make music out of everything. Because of your longing, you hear the music nature can create, and you tell me you need help."

I shrug. A fake gesture, I'm not nearly as nonchalant as I try to appear.

"Yes, to make it complete...I..."

"If I offered to help you, you would turn me down, because I'm not the one who can help you to ‘put the pieces together.' What you mean is finding the right lyrics, isn't it?” He lights up, and fires off that blasting smile of his."Hell, everyone here knows I'm not the most skilled wordsmith in this band."

Paul’s statement comes out of the blue, but sometimes he jumps ahead in a conversation. He expects everyone to be able to follow. It's quite charming, actually.

His perceptiveness is frustrating, but I can't help but laugh.

"That's strange, considering how much you can talk when you're in the mood."

Paul laughs too. "I have to, in contrast to you and the others who just have to be so damn pretentious and serious all the time." 

He clears his throat. ”Well, at least sometimes. Some of you.”

I tap my fingers on the table, but the beat doesn't match the melody in my head.

Half an hour later, Paul stretches his arms in the air and yawns.

"Well, now I'm not lying when I say that I need to sleep."

I can't hold back a chuckle. Paul's eyes are slightly red and glossy, both from the booze and lack of sleep.

"I can tell."

He rises from the table, swaying from one foot to the other. He must have been drinking more than I noticed. But to be honest, I haven’t paid much attention either to how much, or what any of us have been drinking the last few hours.

"Aren't you coming?" he asks, surprised when I remain seated.

"In a minute. I'll have another drink. I'm not tired yet..." I hear how distant I sound, but I'm trying to memorize some especially beautiful tones in my head.

Paul's smile sparks when he shrugs and pats me on the shoulder.

"Don't drink too much. You have a song to compose tomorrow. If you can wait until then."

Before he leaves the bar, he turns to me again and adds, "Don't fear the inevitable, Richard. I'm sure the song will be glorious."

As always, he's right. Paul is always right when it comes to certain matters of my heart. Not that it helps against the fear.

I end up having a glass of orange juice. More alcohol might disturb the melody, which has increased in intensity since I've been left on my own and I want my head to be as clear as possible. I can't do the song justice with an alcohol-clouded brain. I'll end up losing some crucial patterns.

With a deep sigh, I rise from the table. Time to sleep to gather my strength and prepare myself for ‘the inevitable.'


	2. Multitasking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm not that well versed in the craft of songwriting, so if I've gotten any terms wrong, I apologize in advance. Feel free to point out any mistakes.

**INTERLUDE**

(Richard)

As soon as I step inside my room and look at my closed guitar case, I realize the complete futility of giving sleep even a half-hearted try, no matter how healthy and good for my peace of mind it would be. I wasn't tired when Paul, who had been unable to stifle his yawns, called it a day. I'm not tired now. Rather I feel refreshed, as if I had taken a power nap. At the same time, the excitement has intensified, making my body almost tingle. The feeling is so enticing, the last thing I want is for it to lose its grip on me. It has been way too long since I last felt something remotely comparable.

As a child, I felt a similar excitement on one of those extremely rare visits to Spreepark with my family, the only Tivoli in DDR at the time. I will always remember the fluttering in my stomach the first time I rode the roller coaster with my older brother, a mix of thrill and terror at the same time. 

Realizing I don't know what time it is, I cast a quick look at the clock on the wall. To my surprise, four hours have passed since the thrumming of the beat in the back of my head had started when I was outside. When I look at the bedside table, where I have a pack of cigarettes, I realize with amusement that I haven't smoked since then. The allure of the melody is so strong it triumphs even my severe nicotine craving.

Now, after procrastinating for hours, the time has come to try and play. I want to hear what the melody can be. I think Till will want to hear, too. No. I know he does. I find it hard to know what he wishes to hear but when it's something that traps me like this I know he will be curious. If he's in the mood to show it.

Picturing him listening makes the lure of the melody in my head grow stronger and I inhale deeply. If it weren't so enticing, it might have started to grow irritating. With my blood pumping furiously in my veins and throbbing in my ears to underline the rhythm, I realize all too well the fundamental difference between the feeling of the child in the park and the feeling of the grown man under the sky.

I look at myself in the mirror and run my fingers through my hair. The person looking back with dilated pupils has no wish to remain here alone going crazy, with a melody that needs to become a song, but that's incomplete without words. There is a time and a place for music without lyrics. This melody is different; the words are fundamental.

Suddenly the air is thicker, harder to breathe, which makes me surrender with an overwhelming sense of relief.

I need Till's help. He's the only one that can create the missing part, the lyrics.  _ The one.  _ I emphasize that in my thoughts to make myself less inclined to deny it, to not let hesitation overrule me again. Determined, I close my eyes for a second as I gather enough strength to answer the yearning running through my body in streams like the ones in the sky. I grab the guitar and leave for his room...

To retrieve the missing part of the song.

______________________________________________________________________

(Till)

Once I'm in bed, sleep eludes me. I'm not surprised, as it wasn't the kind of fatigue that made me call it a night. I end up tossing and turning, wrapping myself in a twisted blend of blankets and sheets, all up over my head. Richard often does that when he sleeps. It reminds me of a young child's efforts to snuggle.

When I finally have found sleep somewhere along the dim-lit crater of doze, a muffled voice, the most beckoning one, calls me back up to the surface. 

It's Richard banging on my door, calling my name. I hear him so well, a thought passes through my head that the walls of the hotel must be poorly isolated. But his voice is the only one that can break through more impenetrable barriers than the abyss of slumber. And he comes to me because, despite his doubts, he knows it.

Before I'm even fully awake I sit up and throw my sheets aside, hurl myself out of bed, and hurry towards the door before he wakes up the entire hotel. I throw it open with a bang, stumble over a sheet that is wrapped around one of my feet, and practically trip into the corridor. 

Richard flinches and takes a step back as if on instinct before a tiny smile appears on his lips and he reaches out the hand that isn't holding his guitar case to help me steady myself. I curse inwardly at my clumsiness. My enthusiasm feels ridiculous and misplaced, but I'm still on the cusp between sleep and wakefulness. 

He holds me a second too long, as if he wants our physical contact to linger. I'm convinced he feels the same regret I do when he lets go and allows his hand to fall to the side.

"I can't sleep."

No greetings, no social formalities. He can be like that sometimes, with me and others, but I haven't seen it in a while, so I thought that had changed. In contrast to me, someone who fights so hard to hide my feelings that I end up saying nothing. The fight is futile; he can read me like a book.

"Why?" 

"I went out to smoke and heard the sound of the Northern Lights and there was a melody that got stuck in my head. I want to compose a song."

He doesn't look me in the eyes and his words are fast, rushed. I recognize it so well, his hurry to get the words out of his mouth before he changes his mind. Or, truth be told, before I will interrupt him.

I want to ask him when he started thinking I wouldn't let him speak his mind to me. Have I interrupted him that often? Or have I given him the impression that I don't listen?

"Can you help with the lyrics?" 

A demand,  _ no, it's a plea, _ disguised as a question. I take a closer look at him, wondering if he's sober. His appearance is, as always, impeccable, but his eyes are glossy and there's a faint flush on his cheeks. Knowing him and his facial expressions as well as I do, I doubt alcohol is the source. He bites his lip and looks at me in silence, shifting his body weight from one foot to the other. 

My sigh isn't from fatigue, nor dejection. Longing can express itself in many ways. Just like lust.

Both of them are personified in front of me.

Sleep is irrelevant. Have I ever thought otherwise?

I become aware that I'm standing there in the corridor, clad in only my boxers and a T-shirt. I sleep naked most of the time, It's a good thing that I forgot to strip tonight.

"Just wait a moment," I say with a smile that I hope is reassuring. Richard's wide-eyed stare tells me that maybe it isn't.

I go back into my room. Behind me, I hear how he exhales- from relief? Doesn't he know just how impossible it would be for me to deny him? Of course not. I don’t blame him. I have said no too many times.Even when I haven’t wanted to. The way I long to spend time with him unsettles me, and just because of that I spend time with others instead and avoid him, as much as possible. I know I'm hurting him, as I hurt myself, but it just isn't that easy. I'm dependent on my peace of mind, and while I seek them, too, new attachments can wear me out. In contrast to him, who seeks them out all the time.

"Let's go," I say when I put on the black T-shirt and the black jeans I left on my chair earlier before I went to bed. Without deeper reflection, I automatically check the pockets for the bottle of lube as I put my winter coat on. I don't bother buttoning it. We're not going far, and I know myself. I'll need the cold to keep my mind focused on the icy ground, or I'll end up upside down in a pile of snow.

Once we're outside, Richard points up to the vivid display of the greens and the yellows of the Aurora Borealis. He talks about how beautiful and enchanting this marvel of nature is. I nod, but I don't look up in the sky and I'm not thinking of the Aurora

Richard also tries to get me to hear the sound. At first, I hear nothing, but after he has dragged me off the road and down a small slope, I can discern a popping and sparking sound that moves back and forth with regularity, but I can't detect the rhythm that has bewitched him so. I'm not surprised, he has the ability to find music in the most unexpected places.

Merely by looking at Richard, how he shines with excitement, I can imagine him as a child, finding gifts under the Christmas tree. I know I can find the right words for the song he asks for. I also know I will suffer afterward.

My feet feel heavy as I wade through the snow behind him.

______________________________________________________________________

(Richard)

By the time we reach the studio nearby the hotel, I'm shivering. Going inside doesn't make it better. When I remove my jacket it feels almost as cold inside as it does outside. I lock the door with a firm click as if that would make the room warmer and Till gives me an odd look. I smile. 

"I don't want just anyone to walk in."

I don't elaborate, but the look he gives me tells me that he understands completely and that he agrees.

The small cabin beside the hotel that has been made into a recording studio has walls that once were white, but are now yellowed from age and cigarette smoke from when it was still allowed to smoke on the inside. Now the smell of smoke in the room comes from the cockle stove opposite the bed. It's old and white-tiled, with the grind slightly rusty from age and remnants of ashes. At the side there's a basket full of freshly chopped logs, the scent of the wood mixing with the smoke, giving the room an almost cozy atmosphere. Just like home.

Till takes off his coat, throws it on a chair, and opens the cockle stove to throw in a couple of logs. He struggles with the lighter I've thrown him before he finally manages to light them. The flames are not much more than tiny sparks. 

I realize that I'm staring and I fight to draw my gaze away from him, but my eyes are irresistibly drawn back as if I have no will of my own. But I have, and looking at him is what I want to do. 

"It'll do," he says. “We're not that cold." 

Aren't we? I disagree, but I don't say anything. Then again, when Till looks at me, I’m convinced he knows my shivering isn't only caused by the low temperature. Or from inspiration.

He sits down in a chair next to a writing desk situated beside the bed right under the window. The placing boggles me, as I walk over and sit down on the edge. I guess the Samis aren't very interested in feng shui. Till has both a pen and a paper in front of him, I never noticed him putting them there. Maybe they were already on the desk when we arrived. His gaze, however, is glued on me, never wavering, like when we were on the outside and we were supposed to watch the Aurora Borealis.

I meet his bottomless gaze and revel in his scrutiny. The flames in the cockle stove haven't caught yet, but a heat of a different kind spreads through my body.

I'm still holding my guitar case, and it's trembling as it's begging me to be opened. I open the lid before raising my eyes to look at Till again. His gaze is still unwavering, his face is blank, devoid of emotions. Just the way he looks when he's fighting against being overpowered by his inner turmoil. I don't want him to struggle so I rise and lean over him to place a soft kiss on his lower lip. A soft, chaste touch, nothing more, to show him what is still present. He tenses and leans back as if he wants to back away. 

The first time, all those years ago, Till was very clear about kissing, claiming that he avoided it because the intimacy disturbed him. When I opened my mouth to ask for an explanation, he put his hand on the back of my neck, pulled me close, and crushed his lips against mine, with a force I had never encountered before. We ended up doing nothing but kissing that whole night. In the morning he had proven his point and a part of me has never stopped craving that intimacy ever since. With him.

He does likewise now. When his hesitation makes me try to pull back, he tangles his strong fingers in my spiky hair and holds me still. He breathes into my open mouth as if he's trying to feed me a part of himself. The intention for a soft, quick touch evaporates like my earlier plan to sleep. 

My back starts to hurt, so I sit down on the bed, the guitar in my lap. Till's lips are still there, parted, pressed over mine, welcoming him. His hands roam over my back, over my shoulders, pulling the guitar strap aside.

When we separate, the lack of air has made me dizzy and the melody in my head is now more defined. When I feel his naked skin against mine, I realize with a start I'd recently worn a shirt. We both had.

My surroundings blur as a tongue dances on my shoulder, up to my neck, leaving a wet trail. Strong arms wrap themselves around my waist, squeezing tightly. Using all of my willpower, I try to change the focus back to my original purpose for dragging him out of bed.

"Just sit still and listen." 

The force of his grip makes the words almost impossible to leave my mouth. The clicking sound of belts opened by nimble fingers perfectly fits the melody's beat. When he leans back, we are both panting. I look around. Black and red clothes decorate the floor. 

I return the strap onto my shoulder and pull the strings. When Till moves closer again, the guitar slides out of my lap, but I manage to play a dazzling verse that pours through my fingers like water. I watch him, not the strings, as I play. In the low lighting of the room, his eyes are so close, so green even now, making me think of the color of marine depths. 

The flames in the cockle stove have caught by now and the fire burns with flickering sharp edges, casting shadows on the wall, mingling with the shine from the Aurora Borealis.

I lean forward and bury my head in his hair, inhaling his scent and hearing his steady, but quickened heartbeat, the puffs of his breath, merging with mine. Our combined heartbeats are like two drums in the melody. My strained moans and his fluttering exhales make me think of flutes that haunt me and are hard to capture as his big hands mark their way down my body. They're testing and exploring, like it's the first time, not something we always return to. The combination of strength and tenderness is so familiar and uniquely his.

Nobody can touch me as he does. I would never let anyone.

"What is this melody without the lyrics?"

The mouth moving down my stomach doesn't answer my question. But the music turns clearer with an almost fierce intensity as his tongue reaches its goal and the dance begins. 

I wince.

So much for being immobile. He remains quiet. In contrast to me. But I'm not singing.

I still hold onto the guitar in my hands, the strap imprints red marks into my shoulder and my knuckles almost whitening. He slides his tongue one more time which makes me crave the song even more as I, with tremendous effort, writhe away from him.

Till flinches and looks up at me with glittering eyes. In his pupils, I can see the colors from the outside reflected like in a mirror.

"Too early, no chorus yet," I breathe, my voice not more than a whisper.

Till turns his head as he wipes his mouth before sitting down on the chair again. He starts to write, his pen moving over the paper. I lean over and nuzzle at his neck, right where I know he is most sensitive. This can never be enough. With a low moan, he turns the chair and tilts his head slightly backward, against my throat. I turn to the side, pressing my mouth against his, to meet his tongue again.

Not too early, but maybe just a little too late, I can taste myself on his lips. Till turns his head away.

“Play the guitar, I can’t write otherwise.”His voice is husky and strained.

____________________________________________________________

(Till)

Richard's hands tremble when he plays. The mesmerizing sight makes the pen quiver in my hand. I lick my lips, to see if his taste lingers on me. It doesn't. I try another option and let my other hand move down his side to his hip. He shifts slightly, to guide me in the right direction. He leans forward.

I don't touch myself. He pulls the strings one-handed. Not a task easily accomplished, but Richard is a man of many talents. I close my eyes, one of my hands mimicking the movements of his hand on me, the other fumbling with the paper.

Somebody, a ghost haunting these northern grounds perhaps, opens the window ajar. The tiny fire in the stove is not extinguished by the incoming wind, though. Instead, the flame rises higher fed by the sudden onslaught of oxygen. The room soon turns warmer as the smells of us flow out in the air, to evaporate and disappear into the dark, soon forgotten. The faint scent of snow fills the room and mixes with the scent of the burning logs in the cockle stove.

I shiver. I can't find the rhyme in my words. Is it there, in those inscrutable eyes, blue as the hottest part of a flame? Or does the heat make everything rhyme? I don't know. The pen moves on its own accord and I read aloud as I write. I don't know if I'm coherent when I follow Richard's tones. He lets me go and grabs the guitar with both hands again to follow the words on the paper. My deep sigh is a result of both relief and regret.

I continue to stroke him as trembles rake through his body and I see goosebumps appear on his smooth skin, perfect in the flickering light. The sound from the guitar flutters. Like a pre-chorus, aligned with the words on the paper, soon to be replaced by the chorus.

"Richard."

He raises his head and I feel the never-ending necessity of touch, of lips against lips, of hands that are cold when he clings to me. He knows that I can keep him warm, and he knows I know. Richard inhales deeply, as he, with trembling hands, pulls the guitar strap over his head and places it on the floor. Reluctantly I release him and reach for my coat to retrieve the bottle from its pocket.

When I reach for Richard, he whispers something about me being warm. I'm warm as a titan and as strong as a magnet of iron. I can't hold back a quiet laugh. As I stretch him, I repeat his words and tell him that he's good at finding the words all by himself. His answer is a smile that brightens up the room more than any of nature's light shows. 

"Your hearing is bizarre. That isn't what I said, but your version is better." Then he grows serious, leans over me, and puts his legs on both sides of my hips. As he straddles me he whispers:

"For this song, I want only you."

I hold Richard's hips steadily as he sinks down, inch by inch. Sweat breaks out on his brow until I'm fully buried inside him. I try to hold him still to indulge in the feeling of his heat enveloping me, but he moves, ignoring the pain I know he must feel at such a deep penetration. I can't resist this special strength of his, so I follow his movements, careful not to hurt him.

The lyrics are almost finished. Richard has already noticed. He sighs in my ear. With stubborn insistence, I let the pen float forward like of its own accord. Like hieroglyphs, the Rosetta stone would be needed to decipher them, if the crumpled sheets and illegible clutter were to be found later. By any other than us, that is. I know I will remember the words perfectly, and I whisper them in his ear. Richard will remember them, too. 

The last words are easy to find when we move to this old rhythm. Right before we find the chorus, together, I once again use all of my strength to hold him still. His eyes lock with mine, his gaze watchful as if he is afraid to break the spell, the building crescendo.

"Just sit still and wait. I feel you." 

This time Richard obliges, wavering slightly. I sound calmer than I am, I feel like a storm is gathering inside.

His chest heaves, his face is flushed as he fights to control his heavy breathing long enough to be able to speak.

"I feel  _ you." _

So perfect. Like this, to me, he is a painting of eternal beauty. I resume my movements and my erratic writing at the same time. The urgency I feel to immediately scribble down the last threads of inspiration is impossible to resist.

When I finish writing, my fingers are numb. I let go of the pen and it rolls away, off the desk into a dark corner.

I run my hands over Richard with the same rhythm as our moving bodies. Just like I wrote seconds ago, a loss of gravitation, when stars collapse under their own weight, I pull us down on the mattress. His painted nails dig into my shoulders. His guitar is still resting on the floor, not needed right now, as both music and lyrics blend on their own in our union. 

Outside, the darkness escapes from the night. I look out through the window at the Aurora Borealis that is still there. But it is not dawn yet.

The display on the window-thermometer tells of a terrible cold outside, but I feel so warm I'm grateful for the occasional puffs of fresh air in my face, coming from the still open window.

Richard's hand is on my chest, right above the steady beating of my heart. My hand is on his. I kiss his sweaty brow and stroke his cheek as our heavy breathing calms down. He raises his head, eyes glowing, and he whispers words almost too low for me to hear. His lips just move, but I know what he's saying. A question, but at the same time, a statement. I nod, my confirming "yes" equally as low. 

Richard blinks, eyes glistening as he cradles my face in his palms. I marvel at the coolness of his lips as he presses them against my forehead.

_ Here are the lyrics to the haunting melody. _

_ Here I am. _

_ And we are the song. _

TBC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I would love to know what you think, but especially after this strange excursion.


	3. Red light and dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wrote itself far away from how I planned it from the start, very much lighter and romantic. I hope it's not too confusing and too ridiculous.

**POSTLUDE**

(Till)

At first, when I wake up, my lids feel like they have been glued together. When I finally manage to pry my eyes open, I am blinded by the sun that shines through the window. At these latitudes at this time of the year, the sun never rises high in the horizon. During the polar nights, it doesn't rise at all. That phase has recently passed. Now the sunset falls after a couple of hours.

I blink and put my hand over my eyes to shield them from the blinding glow. My need for some rest from the blinding light hasn't changed. But, right at this moment, I don’t feel the need to hide from the clearest of lights on my chest, sleeping like a child, completely oblivious to the surrounding world.

I think about how I can end up walking on dark paths. When I get lost, his calls can lead me out. 

The air in the room is cold, almost chilly as a result of the fire that has nearly died in the cockle stove. All that is left is some incandescent coal. The orange glow is not enough to warm the room. Fortunately, I closed the window before we went to sleep. Otherwise, due to the inevitable temperature drop, we probably would have frozen to death. The cotton blankets are thin and cover only half of our bodies. The clear sky outside, painted amber and pink, without a cloud in sight, speaks of another horribly cold day.

The arctic chill doesn't touch me now, though. Richard is warmer than the cockle stove as he lies peacefully on top of me. His head on my ribcage, his messy, tangled dark hair tickling my chin, his calm breath a caress on my skin. The position is absurd. To my silent wonder, I have slept so well enough that I feel refreshed, but not rested. When I look at the clock, I realize that only a few hours have passed. 

Whatever he is to me and what he has been: friend, colleague, enemy, muse, lover-- Richard has still never had, despite being the base for it, a good influence on my peace of mind. The pattern my thoughts have taken makes me flinch like I've been stung by a bee.

I look down at him and think about how, lately, he has given up asking why there are periods when I avoid him. We don't talk about these matters anymore. Not with each other, at least. Once, during an afterparty, Flake asked. My memory of what I answered is blurred. Flake said I should give Richard a chance to stay. At the time I had just barked that he had already left with god-knows who.

I raise my hand to let it rest on Richard's head. His hair is still stiff from all the spray he uses to style his spikes. He has remained in the same position since we fell asleep. He must have been truly exhausted and at the same time, overrun with the need to hold on that he has sometimes. I wonder if the memory of our last disastrous encounter before yesterday heightened that need. I run my fingers through his dark strands. Right now, all obstacles seem so far away.

I look at the guitar standing against the side of the chair and the crumpled papers upon the desk.

Right before we went to sleep just some hours ago, Richard played some chords and recorded them in a haze, before he returned to bed, while I rewrote the lyrics, making them look a little less like hieroglyphs. When I was able to read them myself, I read them aloud to him. It was only then, as I heard my own words spoken out loud, I realized that I'd spilled my heart out. Richard listened in silence, eyes shimmering, with the flicker of a smile in the corner of his mouth, gone so fast that I wondered if it had ever been there.

When I was done, he put his hand over mine and gently squeezed.

At times, he talks constantly and can be nearly as exhausting as Paul. At the same time, he knows when words aren't necessary. At least he's like that with me, and he's the only one who is.

As if in a silent agreement, still quiet, we stretched out in the bed, turning against each other and merely watching. I studied the play of the different colors from outside dancing on his skin, an alluring sight, following the contours of the curves of his body. When I don't have to mask my emotions, beauty is less agonizing but never less captivating. 

He doesn't want me to tell him how beautiful he is. Oh, he likes flattery from anyone else, basks in it even. I asked him once why it was different with me. His answer was that he found it disturbing because I don't just flatter anyone for the sake of flattery. 

I still wonder if what I saw in his eyes mirrored what he saw in mine, at that time. 

When he opened his mouth to speak, I hushed him and pressed my finger to his lips. He bowed his head as he opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, and licked it. Never breaking eye contact. His gaze was challenging and urged me on. My breath caught somewhere in its path up my throat.

With immense effort, I removed my finger. I stretched out my arms and reached for him. He slid into my embrace without a trace of hesitation, as if he belonged there.

He did, and he does. 

Our own clash, this time, was louder and stronger than earlier. At the same moment, on the outside, we heard a violent cracking sound resonating through the slit in the window. The green and pink in the sky then were ripped apart by deep, red arcs like bleeding scars on cut skin. 

The Blood Aurora. 

According to the Russian Samis, the red Aurora Borealis are the lights from the souls of murder victims. From time to time they gather together and stab each other to death, again and again. The spilled blood appears in the sky as red light.

I think about how nowadays mankind knows that the color depends on which kind of atoms are involved in the clash, and at which altitude it happens. The green color is the most common one, with oxygen atoms at the lowest altitude, at a lower speed. You seldom see the red in Aurora, as it is a result of clashes with oxygen on a higher altitude, with the highest speed. On  _ way _ higher altitudes, preceded by the most intense solar storms.

The northern light never gets more beautiful than that.

The red light spilled through the window and flickered over his face and shone on his skin. It blended with the shadows in the room, as he moved over and inside me with motions both slow and exquisite.

Now, as I remember it, I feel like my heart changes the pattern of its beats. Like the memory is so fascinating, it is drawn away from its regular rhythm. The tightening in my throat makes me gasp for air. The emotion is painful, but also peaceful. Again, I muse over how the simplest things can be so complex at the same time.

I dip my nose against his head and inhale the mixed scent of sweat, remnants of his expensive aftershave, and old cigarette smoke that is so uniquely him. I've smelled it many times, for many years, but the intoxicating effect never wavers. When he stirs, I press my lips into his unruly hair. 

__________________________________________________________________________

(Richard)

I feel Till's lips in my hair, but I don't feel ready to wake up just yet. Falling asleep was a difficult task, despite how exhausted I had felt and I get the distinct impression that I want to linger in the realm of dreams, where I can remain in this position. With the regular beating of a certain heart against my ear. 

Till's heart. I never feel more peaceful than when I can rest like this.

Our limbs are still intertwined like they were when we admired the continuous bleeding of the night sky until we both fell asleep. I had never seen the Northern Light in red before. Neither had Till. 

His strong arms are still wrapped around my back. One of my hands is on his chest and the other is loosely wrapped around his waist, resting on the mattress. It's perfect like this, a physical illustration of the song, of our union, of our collision. 

I wish things were just as easy and clear outside this room, as they appear to be right here, right now. Why do we keep hurting each other, why do we go on pretending that we don't need each other. Why don't we ever try to fight for what we've felt for so many years? Because, whatever we do, we always end up like this. Because it's always better.

It's not only better because of exercise and experience. What makes everything even more strange or sad is that while we don't speak of it, we are both aware that our feelings are mutual and stretch beyond shores we've never dared to explore.

I shift and try to roll on my side, as wakefulness takes over, and I realize that after so many hours my weight on him might have turned uncomfortable. For me, on the other hand, it's a perfect place to doze, as near as possible, such a concrete reminder that we're still close. Then I can pretend to forget that we have to part at some point.

Come to think about it, I am amazed that Till has remained in this position. He may need to breathe.

Apparently not.

At my movements, one hand on my back tightens its hold, while the other one plays with my hair as he wraps his legs around my hips to press me down and keep me locked in place.

"You're awake,” he states firmly as if I had tried to conceal it from him. I can't deny that he's right-- I'm awake, far more than I wish to be. I raise my head from his chest and meet his glossy green eyes, gazing at me through half-closed lids. He looks just as newly awoken as I feel. I lower my glance as I press my lips softly to his chest, and run my fingers along the scar on his stomach. He tenses and inhales deeply. I smile as I feel him shiver, just from that gentle touch.

Not all collisions are painful. Sometimes they are merely wonders of nature.

"Unfortunately. Sleeping has its merits if you're resting comfortably," I answer. 

I look at Till again. Is that a smile or a snicker in the corner of his mouth? I get my answer when he chuckles,

"Well, I'm glad somebody did."

I try another half-hearted attempt to roll away and lie beside him. I start an apology I don't mean, but stop when I feel the frenetic grip on my back. He presses his legs even harder around my hips to keep me in the same position.

I don't mind. Instead, I sigh contentedly and lay my head down on his chest again. His skin feels slick against my ear. I look out the window, at the light of the morning sun that is already sinking below the horizon. Soon it will be dark, but night is hours away.

"Oh, you don't seem to mind, or you would have rolled me off.” 

I flex my hips, pushing down, and am rewarded with his immediate response. I'm not surprised. 

“Maybe we should consider a shower?" I grab a bit of the soiled, wrinkled sheet as if to show him, but his gaze is fixed on me.

Not that I wish to leave the bed, the thought of remaining here, with him, like this, is way more compelling. 

"A shower is not necessary if we're going to soak ourselves again so soon.'' Till¨s voice has dropped an octave as his fingers draw circles on my back. “I need you like this, Scholle."

I press my lips against his. Would I ever say no to that?

Once again, I think about the TV-show where they talked about how the collision between electrons and protons, positive and negative, also happens during the daytime. At those times, hard to detect by a human eye.

"I've missed you," I say, my voice low, as I try to calm my ragged breath. I turn my head once again to study the rapidly darkening sky outside the window. No stars, no Aurora Borealis yet. The absence of dancing colors makes me feel a strange longing inside

A hand under my chin turns my head back to face Till.

"If you don't want to leave, then stay, Richard," he states genuinely, his seriousness underlined by the lack of using my nickname. He only uses my full name when he's adamant about something. I am amazed. He has never asked me outright to stay before and to be honest, he doesn't  _ ask  _ me now either. When I look away, he takes my wrist and traces the red line.”You can just stay. Of your own choice.”

"It's not that simple." The moment I say it, I realize I am wrong.

"It can be."

He's right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you're welcome to tell me what you think.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read this! /S.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated.


End file.
